If above or belowThese powers the boxesKept movingIf this was a gameWe were making the rulesUp as we went alongAs though within our Own bodies without controlShe's lost control againWe're just beginning To manage her limbsLike assemblage we shitWe perspire autonomy When they tell us toOnly there is no me And there is no youThere is no beginning In other words to this Process this continuous Product producing our Exception

Like in a harrows we sweatLike in a vacuum of politicalControl called representationCalled media saturated

We wake to this machineThe women already wake spinningTheir hair as if from goldA myth of morning

The animals who make them awakeAnd who assist with productionForm an assembly line Within an otherwise post-Fordist refrain

One lays in the grassLike a patient or an objectHow these women they are husbandryAnd husband and husbanded

I want to call this rhizomeThe endless exploitation extending without roots From a thousand holes where power leaks Conspires and condescends on bare assesThe ass without a face, the dehumanized assThe face upon which one couldn't reproduceWhen all we could do was produce The hours expand, click into place.

Take a sample, that one is body, come downFrom the cross, frisk the remains, of meat,My contemporary, because it was enthusiastical,To spin in your studio, before the world wasMade, face pressed to glass, air pressed,You dance, you smile, to spin a kind of Voguing, before there was air, your Bloodstream, not a metaphor, for things believedFor a world that believed, art was the knowledge,It was the sense of this, that there mayStill be communion, fucking will still be immanent,Imagined as a sketch, in wax which breaks,The insincerity of this, rises through a semblance.

Like a RomanI brag a lotLike a Greek my Flesh is mortalIt is here and Public and not a slaveMy deeds fade in the Public eye likeDreams of a sociusI am an Egyptian Because the worldIs a tomb we live inI leave pictures andWords behind— Fragments of an Immortalized sun.

Our senses of installationThat blood and the breath are a sketchPart of one photosynthesisThe shadows have come To make us believeOne day they will make us one With what will have been but not yetLike any body grieves and grief is a debt Never paid backTo worlds we have lostFor what we will lose procession turnsInto professionNotes split space and airYou arrange what was smashed You interact Exalt the remnants no vision can possess.